A Demon Named John
by PissedOffEskimo
Summary: Azazel knows that Sammy's his boy, he's never been more sure of anything. So when John starts hunting, he decides to take matters into his own hands and sends someone to watch the boys. Make sure they grow up the way he wants them to. (Wincest - eventually; possessed!John; pre-series; seasons one and two; violence; threats of non!con; manipulation)
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I promised myself I would start posting this on December 10 if I had enough written, and while I could argue that considering how long this is shaping up to be 90 plus pages isn't enough, my significant other assures me that I'm just making excuses. So, fine then, no more excuses. Besides, I think I need feedback for fuel, which means that comments and kudos are appreciated. Deeply, deeply appreciated.

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><p><span><strong>Chapter One<strong>

Dean was four when his mom died and a year later, he's losing his dad. His dad hasn't died, or at least Dean doesn't think he has, but what walks in the door that night isn't his father and it doesn't take him more then a few seconds to figure that out. He doesn't need the pitch black eyes. It's in the smile. It's the way the thing leans in the doorway of the apartment, not for support from one too many beers, but because it's watching him where he's laying on the floor where Sammy and he had fallen asleep earlier, waiting for Dad to come back.

It watches them for minutes, just standing in the open doorway and then it smiles, wide and lazy. When it walks, it saunters. Dean's only five and he doesn't know a lot, but he knows more than most five year olds. He knows his mother burned, pinned over his brother's crib. His Dad doesn't hold any punches with the truth. Sometimes, Dean wishes he would, but mostly, he's glad he doesn't. Especially now, because when the thing crouches in front of him and it's eyes go from brown to beetle black, maybe Dean's chest seizes up in panic and he wants to scream, but he doesn't, because he remembers what these things can do and he doesn't want to end up like his mom. He doesn't want to leave Sammy alone.

They stare at each other for what feels like hours, but it's probably only minutes. Then the black bleeds away and the brown of his Dad's eyes are back. It puts one callused finger up to its own mouth and glances at Sammy, asleep and covered in a thin blanket. Dean nods, because he doesn't know what else to do. It reaches out, ruffling his hair.

Dean does flinch away, but it doesn't look upset or angry. It looks amused as it gets up and walks past him into the bathroom, shutting the door behind it. The idea of running out the front door almost makes him wake up Sammy, but… but he's five and Sammy's barely a year old. He doesn't know how far they'd get on their own – not far – or, if they go for help, what the thing will do to whoever helps them.

His dad says demons have black eyes. If it's a demon then it's possessing him and possession means his Dad's still in there somewhere. Probably. That's Dad's theory, anyway and he can't leave Dad to that, so he presses his back to the sofa and tries to remember everything Dad told him about demons in the last year.

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><p>"Christo!"<p>

Dean stays up all night. He'd sits next to Sammy and watches the door where the thing possessing his father is… okay, well, he isn't sure what it is doing, but it hasn't come out all night.

Somewhere between four and five, he manages to convince himself that it might not be a demon. Dad always says there are other things out there, lots of them, and while he hasn't mentioned anything else that had black eyes like that, he'd readily admitted he didn't know even half the things that were out there, so maybe it isn't Dad at all, maybe it's just something that looks like him. Or maybe it's worse. Maybe something has done something to him and his dad isn't human anymore. Either way, he has to be sure. Dad says demons can be forced to reveal themselves under certain circumstances – salt, holy, water, Christo. Dean can't reach the salt without climbing the counters and that would be too obvious. The holy water is in the room the maybe-demon's been occupying all night, but he still has his voice.

He can't do it right away, though. At breakfast, Sammy's right there and if it is a demon, it might get pissed enough to hurt them. So, he waits until Sammy goes down for his nap in their bedroom and the demon is standing in the kitchen, watching Dean pour himself a glass of water. He waits until it has its head tilted back, one hand on the bottle, the other resting against the counter top and he says it. No point in being subtle, so he's loud and it's just one word, but as soon as it's out, he regrets it, because it chokes on the beer and twitches it's head down at him, eyes stuttering to black as it shakes off the affects of whatever the word does to it.

Dean backs up a few steps before his back hits the table, but it isn't moving for him, in fact, once the twitching stops, it smiles. "Aren't you just a clever little boy. Daddy taught you well."

He glares at the mention of his dad, trapped behind black and the faint smell of sulfur, but there. Has to be there somewhere. The thing twitches, its face warping subtly into something pained and desperate for a moment before settling back into an angry sneer.

It chugs the last of the beer and says nothing as it storms into Dad's bedroom, slams the door hard enough that seconds later Sammy starts crying. Dean isn't sure what just happened, but he thinks maybe it was Dad, just for a second, so he can't give up. If Dad can fight, he can stay.

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><p>Sometimes he's sees Dad. Not for very long, just seconds at a time and if he says anything, it's usually just Dean's or Sammy's name, broken and choked up, and then he's gone. Dean tries Christo one more time. He's desperate for his dad, desperate for someone to tell him what to do. This thing doesn't hurt them, it feeds them, it watches Dean, and it doesn't seem to care about Sammy as long as Dean keeps him out from under its feet, but it looks like his dad. His dad is in there somewhere and he thinks there has to be a way to help. There has to be someone he can call. He remembers names Dad said a few times, an old army buddy of his, a pastor, and a guy named Bobby that Dean met once, and a psychic back in Lawrence. He doesn't know anymore than that, though. He doesn't have numbers, or addresses. What he does have is Sammy and something that looks like his father, but isn't.<p>

So, when it's been a week since his father has managed to push through and Dean is desperate enough to not care if it hurts him, he says it. Sammy is asleep and he's looking at the empty plates at the table while the thing drinks beer and watches him, like it's been doing for a month now. Dean looks at it and says, "Christo," soft and as defiantly as he can manage with only five years and a world of fear behind it.

It twitches at him, eyes going black and lips curling into a snarl for just a second before it rights itself. Dean waits and he hopes. But it only crouches down in front of him. There's nothing of his father in those black eyes and they aren't wavering. They stare at him and he ticks off the seconds in his head until it reaches out and ruffles his head, still smiling before going to the couch and kicking its feet up onto the coffee table to watch television.

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><p>If his father's still in there – and Dean has to believe he is, he has to or he'll start crying and he doesn't think he can stop and Sammy will ask why and Dean doesn't know how to answer that – he can't get through. Dean knows his dad well enough to know he's still fighting, but he must have already lost or is losing whatever war is going on in there, because it's been months. He thinks about running all the time. He thinks about how bad an idea that is, but he thinks maybe if he waits a few years, maybe when Sammy's a little older.<p>

He does the math and makes plans that he isn't even sure he'll be able to follow through with, but it's better then doing nothing.

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><p>The first day of school, Dean doesn't talk to anyone, mostly because he doesn't have anything to say, but also because he isn't sure what he's allowed to say. He'd been terrified when they were enrolling him that the demon intended to watch Sammy. He can't imagine leaving his not even two year old brother alone with it for hours. He doesn't understand why he's being forced to go, because the one forcing him is a demon. What does it care if he has an education? Why can't he just stay home and take care of Sammy like he's been doing?<p>

Except every time he tried to ask, it said, "You're going," and walked away, like that's the end of it and Dean realized it was. He couldn't say no, because he's six and John isn't his father, except that he is and no one is going to look twice, even if John drags Dean kicking and screaming into that elementary school.

It watches him closely for the last few days preceding the start of school. It watches him watching it, alternating between glaring and shaking in something that borders fear and defiance while he hugs Sammy a little closer. It doesn't even look at Sammy most days. Will it bother feeding him? Will it notice if he gets into something he isn't supposed to? If Sammy throws a temper tantrum… what if it gets so annoyed it hurts him or worse and Dean isn't there?

By the time the first day of school rolls around Dean is so stressed that he almost hugs the demon as he's so stupidly grateful when it walks them down to the other end of the small complex of apartments they live in and Dean meets Ms. Alverez, the retired widow that takes care of her grandkids after school and is absolutely delighted to watch Sammy during the day. Instead, he hugs Sammy and after the door closes and they're in the safety of the car, Dean chokes out, "Thank you," and hates himself for it at the same time, but if it keeps Sammy safe, he can say thank you and he can mean it. He already does.

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><p>There's John and there's Dad. Dean has to make that distinction, it's easier to separate the two if he has a name for it but he can't give it a different name because it would be too confusing. It introduces itself as John, everyone calls it John or sometimes Mr. Winchester, but whether because it doesn't like it or because it notices that Dean flinches when they do, it always corrects them, "Just John," and Dean figures it could be worse.<p>

He doesn't know what it wants, but it isn't hurting them, not in any physical way. Sammy's about to turn two and doesn't pay any attention to John anymore. He goes immediately to Dean for everything and sometimes when he looks at John, it's like he isn't sure why he's there. They've moved a few times already – new schools for Dean, new sitters for Sammy. Dean hasn't been anywhere long enough to make real friends, but then he doesn't really want to.

Sammy is a toddler and he doesn't remember being a toddler, but he sees other toddlers and they usually smile at each other, wave at each other. Sammy doesn't do any of that. His eyes are always firmly on Dean, like Dean is the only thing that matters and if Dean points to other kids, Sammy shakes his head and says, "No!" before laughing, like it's the best joke ever, like it's a game.

Dean might only be six, but he knows that isn't normal, but then he can't really hope for normal, not yet. He can hope for maybe safe and unhurt and not hungry and a lot of things, but normal is another galaxy away. Normal is a place where he's got his brother away from this thing, or maybe he's found a way to get it out of his father, or his father manages to kick it out all on his own, but it isn't here and it isn't now.

"Dean!" Dean smiles at Sammy and reaches up, pulling the hood down over his brother's face. Sammy squeals hysterically pulling it back with a loud, "Dean!" that gets them smiles from other people in the store.

John frowns, but doesn't say anything. He doesn't like attention drawn to them, but he seems to have given into the idea that there are different kinds of attention and laughing happy Sammy gets them a better kind then crying fussing Sammy. Dean pushes his luck and does it again and Sam falls forward over the bar of shopping cart, laughing, then bites the rail, looking at Dean through a thick fringe of tousled brown hair and it's Dean's turn to laugh.

Two more years.

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><p>Two years ago, eight had seemed impossibly old. Dean had thought he'd have it figured out by then, but he doesn't. Not even a little. He knows that as young as they are right now, he has to have somewhere to run to. If he doesn't, they'll get dragged right back. So, he listens when they're out, because he remembers Dad saying something about Hunters, people who kill monsters, and he thinks maybe if he could find one, he'd have somewhere to run to.<p>

Sometimes, he thinks John knows what he's doing, because he doesn't take them out often. Most of the year, he locks them in and does the shopping on his own, but around the holidays, people get nosier than usual and John's keyed into that enough that he takes them shopping with him for those two months out of the year.

The hardest part, he thinks, is that he still doesn't know what it wants. It clearly hates sitting around playing homemaker with them. It drinks all the time, mumbles to itself, spends hours out on the town. Sometimes it brings back a random drunk woman in that time between late night and early morning and Dean covers his head with a pillow so he doesn't have to listen.

It still hasn't raised a hand to them. It hasn't even raised its voice. Dean's used Christo four more times, just to remind himself that John isn't his father, because sometimes… sometimes it feels like there aren't a lot of differences. Like it could be his father sitting at the table with him.

He's used salt once, too, across the front door and the window sills when John went out one night and sat on the sofa, waiting to see what would happen. It didn't say anything, didn't make threats or promises, didn't go to get reinforcements and eventually, Dean got up and obscured the line on his own, because he wasn't sure what he'd intended to accomplish with that anyway. Even if he could keep it out, that didn't help anything - it locked them in as much as it locked the demon out. The only repercussion he's faced is now John doesn't buy salt and he makes sure none of the previous tenants have left any in the cupboards when they move in. Dean can always steal salt shakers from the diners they visit between towns, but he figures he'll save that trick for later, when he knows what to do with it.

It's confusing and complicated and Dean wishes he was older then eight, so maybe he'd understand what and why and how and when they'll be able to get away, but for now, he can't do anything more then wait and worry about Sammy.

He's being watched by a Ms. Carter across the street from their apartment. She has a small daycare, ten children maximum and she's nice enough. Dean likes her because with ten kids, Sammy can make friends. Except that Sammy doesn't want to. Ms. Carter says Sammy's quiet, well behaved, he has good table manners for someone his age, but he doesn't really socialize with the other kids there. He's not mean, or anything. In fact, if they talk to him, he talks back and he's polite and nice enough, he just isn't interested. According to Ms. Carter, he isn't interested in anything until Dean gets there in the afternoon.

John plays the sympathy card when she approaches him about it – their mother died four years ago and his job moves them around a lot, he's so grateful for everything she does with Sammy, it means a lot to him – with a smile that makes her cheeks and neck pink and makes Dean feel uncomfortable.

Dean waits till they're alone later that night to talk to Sammy. He asks if Sammy has friends and Sammy says, "No." like it doesn't mean anything.

"They're nice to you, right? They don't make fun of you or anything?" Because he's well aware that kids can be mean and they walk around in second hand clothes that don't fit right.

"No, they're nice."

"Then… Sammy, do you want to be friends with them?"

"No." He's still paying more attention on the coloring book than Dean, because Sammy doesn't see this as a serious conversation and Dean isn't sure what that means, but he's heard the concern, not just in Ms. Carter's voice, but in their other babysitters as well. Sammy not making friends is something to be concerned about, it's something serious.

"Why not?"

Sammy shrugs and his lips quirk and he stops coloring for just a second, a small hesitation like he's thinking about it and then he says, "You don't."

"I don't what?"

"Have friends."

And of course he doesn't. Dean doesn't have time for friends and even if he did, it's not like he can go over to their house to play – leave Sammy alone with John or just alone if John decides to go out. Kids his age don't understand him. Dean's responsible for his brother, in more ways then he can count and he has a literal demon breathing down his neck every day and he lives in a constant state of flux where he doesn't know when they'll move again or when John will get tired of having them around and what that's going to mean and if he can get Sammy out before that happens. He's afraid and confused and worried and overwhelmed nearly all the time and he doesn't feel like adding to that by pretending to play games like the other kids, which means that, no, he doesn't have friends.

But Sammy… Sammy should have friends. Dean takes the brunt of this alone because he doesn't want Sammy scared – he wants his brother happy and part of that is having friends. If it's for Sammy, Dean figures, he can do anything, even make friends. Or, well, pretend to.

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><p>Tommy is the only other kid Dean's age that goes to Ms. Carter's. He's quiet and he likes books, superheroes, and Pac-man. Dean isn't sure about books, he doesn't like superheroes because they're lies, but he can get behind Pac-man. Ms. Carter has an Atari set up to a small television in one of the back bedrooms and Tommy doesn't seem to mind Dean joining him.<p>

Dean has no intention of excluding Sammy from anything. He makes more then enough room for Sammy to join them and even gives him the controller a few times. This isn't about pushing Sammy away; it's about showing him that they can make friends, that it's okay to play with other friends outside of Dean.

Even if it's what he wants, when Dean looks back one afternoon and sees Sammy isn't on the bed with them anymore, his chest seizes up. He excuses himself and finds Sammy in the living room playing blocks with one of the other kids – a little girl with curly pigtails and a pink and brown dress – and it shouldn't make him upset. This is what he's been trying to get at. Sammy should play with other kids. The way Ms. Carter is beaming down at the two of them, asking what their building, says this is what she wanted. This is good, so why does it hurt? And why, when they move a week later, does he feel so relieved that Sam doesn't care about leaving Bridgette behind?

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><p>"I've got a job. You're coming with me."<p>

Dean isn't sure what that means, but he knows it isn't good, because John is staring at him like he expects Dean to argue, which means he should. It's the first time John's ever mentioned a job or work of any kind. Dean's considered asking what he does for money, because he keeps them in food and hand-me-down clothes. Sometimes they sleep in the car between cities, but not always, so he has to get cash from somewhere. In the long run, though, Dean isn't sure he wants to know.

"You hear me?"

He looks up from the table where he's doing a word search and stares back, thinking about what it means that John wants him there. The only thing his mind runs up against is Sammy, asleep in one of the beds behind a decorative barrier. The television is on and Tom and Jerry are chasing each other in the background. Dean casts a glance back to make sure they aren't bothering Sammy, but he's still sound asleep, curled up under the scratchy comforter. "What about Sammy?"

"He can stay here."

Sammy's barely five. School let out a week ago and as Dean expected, John immediately packed them into the car and started the summer road trip. They won't settle anywhere for more then a few weeks over the next three months and Dean usually hates it, but this time around, it means he gets Sammy all to himself. He likes that his brother makes friends so easily and that little kids are so naturally trusting of each other, but he can't help feeling a little lost when it feels like Sammy needs him just a little bit less.

This new town is just large enough to have a wrong side of the tracks and that's where they've settled. The rest of the motel John's got them in is full of drug addicts, transients, and prostitutes turning a quick buck. In fact, it's bad enough that just this last week, Dean found out what a prostitute is.

The point is, they can't leave Sammy alone here. He's five living in a motel room surrounded on both sides by what Dean is pretty sure are crack addicts that would slit their own mother's throat for their next fix, let alone some scrawny five year old they don't know.

John's still watching him, waiting for a response and Dean manages to choke out, "You can't… he's only five. He can't stay alone."

"You stayed alone."

For a full two seconds, Dean can't draw breath, but it feels longer. He's forgotten he was five when Dad left to go talk to someone about information on the thing that killed Dean's mom and came back possessed by a demon. He can't remember what it was like being that young, because he isn't sure he ever was. Maybe before his mom died, but seeing her pinned to the ceiling, her stomach bleeding out, knowing what's out there and what it wants to do to them, what it already has done…

"No. I'm not leaving Sammy." He gets out of his chair and tries to make himself bigger then he actually is, knows he's failing, but doesn't care. He's not leaving Sammy.

John's shoulders stiffen, his eyes narrow, and Dean knows saying no to this thing isn't a good idea. It's why he hasn't done it before. He's begged and pleaded and reasoned, but he's never outright said no. This, though? This is too important to bargain for. He has to draw a line. He has to…

It doesn't move to touch him. He barely has time to see its eyes flash black for a second before Dean finds himself shoved back with what feels like the force of a small car crashing into his chest. His side cracks against the table, which collapses under him. A moment later something collides with the side of his face. He blinks several times but all he can see is faded blacks and greys and he can't seem to move his suddenly very heavy arms and legs.

Somewhere behind a roar in his head, he can hear Sammy yelling, asking what's going on and calling for Dean. Dean finally manages to force his arms to move, to push him up. He slips down onto the floor again, but the second attempt is more successful. He manages to get a grip on a chair and pull himself up only to see what he can barely make out as the open door. His mind registers this as something very bad about the same time his ears fill with the roar of a car engine that can only be his dad's car.

He stumbles a few steps, gets hold of the wall and the door frame. Everything is spinning and he can't think, because the car is already driving off. He can't see Sammy, but he knows he's in there. If he could run fast enough, he'd chase them down, but he can barely stand. He stays in the open doorway for a while; long enough for one of the crack whores to shake her head at him like he's something to pity. When he finally manages to move he slams the door, but doesn't bother to lock it, because he doesn't know if John is coming back or if Sammy will be with him when he does. Whatever's out there that might try to get in doesn't matter.

Dean presses his back to the door and lets the dizziness drive him down. He cradles his throbbing head in his hands and shakes with the urge to cry until he can feel the tears wetting his face and he lets it go.

_-tbc-_


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note**: forgot how completely nerve-racking it is to post something I've not entirely finished writing yet. Swallowing back my anxiety in 5, 4 - oh, reviews are always appreciated - 3, 2, and post.

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 2<span>**

John's gone for hours. Dean spends most of the time against the door crying until blood vessels have burst in his eye lids and he has a headache from the gut wrenching, sobbed screams he couldn't hold in. He didn't cry when his mom died or when the demon took over Dad. He kept moving, because there was Sammy. He had to be strong for Sammy. He had to keep it together for Sammy but if Sammy's gone… if Sammy's gone he doesn't know what he's supposed to do, or who he's being strong for anymore.

When the rumble of the Impala finally drags Dean from thoughts of everything John could do to Sammy while Dean isn't there, he's not ready. He's only moved once to use the bathroom. His legs are unsteady, but he forces himself up and backs away with his fists clenched. Everything in him wants to run at the evil thing the minute it walks in the door, but he's pretty sure he'll fall on his face and while it's a little fuzzy and it happened too fast, he's also pretty sure that John didn't use his hands when he threw him into the table earlier.

He stands his ground when the door opens and John doesn't bother closing it behind him, just looks at Dean like he's assessing him. Behind him the car is empty, or Sammy's asleep in the back, but Dean doubts that. He doubts John drove around with Sammy in the back for a few hours to give Dean time to stew.

"Where's Sammy?"

"Get in the car."

"Where's Sammy?!"

John sighs and takes the quick five steps across the living space, hand out to grab Dean's arm before he can back up more then a few feet.

"You're smarter than this, Dean." He is, he knows better then to make a show of open defiance, but this is Sammy, it's his brother and he can't think straight without him there. "Get in the car."

He wrenches his arm away, or John lets him, because the grip he'd had was already leaving bruises on his bicep. For a good second, he considers making his demand again, but it isn't going to get him anywhere. Maybe he can goad John into smacking him around more and someone will call the police, except its summer and they move a lot and if John keeps to the seedy side of towns and keeps them locked up in the motel room, the odds are no one will see or care.

With a curse word that he's pretty sure his dad would spank him for if he could, Dean storms out to the car, careful not to brush against John on the way out, ignoring the smirk on the demon's lips that doesn't look right in his dad's face. …except Dean's starting to forget what his dad looked like when he smiled. Those memories are being overwritten by the demon and it's not like he has a very clear memory of his mom to begin with. There used to be pictures, but he doesn't know where those are now. John probably threw them out.

The demon gets in the car and looks at him with a frown, "You're not gonna cry, are you?"

"Fuck you."

It's out of his mouth before he can stop it, but the demon's frown slips into a familiar amused smile. "That's my boy."

Dean turns away and sniffs back his anger, because there isn't anything else he can do. He isn't this demon's anything, but he doesn't think John's in the mood to deal with anymore of his defiance.

"We'll pick Sammy up after we finish the job." His head snaps around so fast, it hurts his neck, but John isn't looking at him. The confirmation that Sammy is alive is enough to make him feel choked up with relief. He turns back to the window again, stares at the passing scenery without really seeing any of. All he has to do is get through this and he'll have Sammy back, whatever _this_ is.

* * *

><p>It sounds simple, but Dean knows it isn't. It doesn't take a lot of imagination to figure out how it's going to end.<p>

They drive down a highway for nearly an hour, pull off onto a farm road and twenty minutes later turn off onto a gravel path tucked behind trees with three mail boxes at the front. Dean doesn't know where they are, but he's pretty sure they're still in Iowa, somewhere in farm country. His instructions are easy enough – follow the road until he gets to the house and say and do whatever he has to in order to get inside. John'll be watching. He isn't sure why John needs him for this, but he knows whoever's in there probably won't live through whatever he's planning, so he tries to think of a way out of it.

Ten minutes later, he's standing in front of a small, one story cottage in a little clearing, surrounded by trees, and he hasn't come up with anything. All roads lead to Sammy. He can wait until John's distracted and run, but he doesn't know where his brother is or how to get to him. He knows the mechanics of driving a car, but he's never done it and he isn't tall enough for his feet to reach the pedals anyway. He thinks about warning whoever's in there, but he doesn't know if they'll believe him or if that even matters. There must be a way to stop a demon, kill it or exorcise it, but he doesn't know how. He doubts the occupants of some quaint little farm house in the middle of Iowa do either.

It takes a few more minutes to make himself knock on the door. He's absolutely sure it's a death sentence for someone, but if he doesn't do it, he's also sure John could find another way.

"Who's there?" The voice on the other side is gruff and male and Dean has to take a steadying breath before speaking.

"Please, I…" what does he say? "I need your help."

He doesn't have to fake the shake in his voice or the desperation behind it. He gets Sammy back when they finish the job.

"Name?"

"Dean." He hesitates, but John hadn't said to lie. "Winchester."

The door opens immediately and he finds himself facing a tall, skinny man with a half growth of beard and sickly pale skin. He's wearing a pair of jeans and a tweed jacket. When he speaks, his accent is faintly northern. He doesn't fit in this setting, but he's there and that says something, even if Dean doesn't know what it is. "Winchester? John's boy?"

Dean's mind whirls at the realization that this man knows his father, at least by name. His knows him well enough to know he has a son. It takes him a few gut-wrenching moments to nod his head, because he hasn't thought for a moment this would be someone who knew him or knew _of_ him. He doesn't remember his dad ever talking about family or friends in Iowa and it's not impossible, but it seems more likely that this man is one of the contacts his dad made in that year before he was possessed.

"Where's your dad, son?"

In the long walk there he hadn't thought that maybe this could be someone who knew about the monsters and demons, but now he can't stop thinking it, because there has to be a way to get his dad back and this is the closest he's come to someone who might be able to help him. This is the closest he's come to what he's been listening for in random grocery stores all over the country the last four years, but Sammy…

John had said to do what he had to get in and he didn't say anything else. Dean thinks this is the best chance he's going to get for help. He won't even be disobeying the demon. He takes a deep, shaking breath and says, "He's possessed."

"Shit." The man opens the door wider. Dean takes the invitation and steps in over what he notices is a line of something white at the base of the door. Salt, he has a line of salt at the door, which means he knows something is after him. "Are you okay? Where's your brother?"

"I don't know. He took him somewhere."

The room isn't large and it isn't decorated with anything more then a ratty sofa, old television and a table covered in weapons in the far corner. The man brushes hair out of Dean's face, looking at him closely and it takes Dean a minute to remember the throbbing bruise there and that his eyes are probably blood shot and specked in red from crying earlier.

The man runs a thumb high up Dean's cheek and it stings. He must be cut, but he didn't look in the mirror after John left with Sammy – he'd been too worried and too ashamed at crying to look at himself. "How did you find me?"

He doesn't know how to answer that, so he deflects with, "Are you a Hunter? Dad said something about Hunters and I've never met any, but…" He looks at the guns, "Can those kill a demon?"

"No. I don't know of anything that can actually kill a demon, but you can exorcise one – send its ass straight back to hell." The man drops his hand to Dean's shoulder. "Dean, there have been rumors for… a while now. How long has John been possessed?"

"'Bout four years."

Before Dean can realize what's happening, there are arms around him, pulling him into a hug. He freezes. Dean's what the teacher's call anti-social and his peers call weird. He doesn't like being touched and he doesn't do affection with anyone other then his brother. It's been a long time since anyone even tried to hug him and longer since they succeeded. The last time was the mom of one of the other kids at a daycare who thought he was having a bad day. It had been strange and stiff and uncomfortable.

This was firm and hard and it felt like when his father hugged him after their mom died. It was reassuring and warm and he's stiff for only a few seconds before he relaxes into it, because this man knows. He knows what demons are, he knows what they're capable of and he knows what Dean's lost. Really knows.

They stand there for only a while, Dean isn't sure how long, but his eyes are burning and he's just managing not to cry again. When the man pulls back, he doesn't take his hands off Dean's shoulders. He looks him in the eye with something that Dean thinks is understanding and asks again. "How did you find me?"

Dean hesitates again before admitting the truth, because he doesn't think he can lie right now. More importantly, he doesn't want to. "He brought me here."

The man nods, but Dean pushes on, like an apology, "He took Sammy away and told me to come here. I don't know…"

"I do." The man is standing now, moving to that far corner where the guns are, leaving Dean standing next to the door. He doesn't sound angry, just matter of fact. "I know what it wants. I don't know why, but I know it isn't getting it."

Then the door bursts in and John is standing in the open frame in his leather jacket and dark washed jeans, smile dimpling his cheek on one side, like he's been listening in for the perfect moment to make his entrance. He probably was. Dean tries not to pay attention to the demon unless he has to, but they live in close quarters and he's noticed how John loves to make an impression – whether it's a teacher or waitress or Hunter he's about to kill.

"Carl! Long time no see."

"Dean, get away from the door." The hunter grabs a gun and aims it at the open frame, no matter what he said about not being able to kill one.

John counters with, "Dean, break the salt line."

The gun cocks and Dean can't breathe, can't bring himself to move either way. If he does what John says, he's sentencing Carl to whatever John has planned for him. Carl could help him, maybe. He could find a way to get the demon out of his dad and end the nightmare of uncertainty Dean's been living in, but he doesn't know where Sammy is and if he does what Carl says, John could leave and they might never find his brother.

They're both watching him now, Carl edges a little closer, but Dean steps back, closer to the door, so he stops. "Dean, look at me. I will help you find Sammy. I will do everything I can to get you your family back, but you have to step away from the door and let me handle this."

John leans against the door frame and waits and Dean knows what he's waiting for and he knows he's going to do it, he just can't make himself move. "You know what? Go ahead, Dean, let him pump Daddy full of bullets."

"Dean, whatever it says, you don't listen to it."

"Come on, Carl. You know better."

"I know demons lie."

"Only when we have to. Or when we want to. Or when it's fun. Right now, though, how about _you_ tell him what happens to Daddy if you shoot me."

Dean hadn't thought about that, but what does happen? Carl said the bullets wouldn't hurt the demon, but what would it do to the body? He has no idea what's going on or what this is about or why he's there, but he wants to hear the answer to that question and he wants to hear it from this man, Carl. He'll believe it if Carl says it, because Carl is a Hunter. "What… what's he talking about?"

"Dean, you need to listen to me. That is not your father."

"I know that."

"It hasn't been your father for four years."

"I know that!"

John chuckles, "Come on, Carl, tell the boy. What happens if you shoot me?"

Carl hesitates then sighs in resignation, "It won't kill the demon, but it might do too much damage to the body for it to repair. The demon can keep the body going indefinitely, but if you exorcise it, John dies."

He can't give himself time to think about it. This is his dad they're talking about. He's put up with four years of hell in the hope that he can figure out a way to get him back and that doesn't happen if he lets Carl fire that gun. If he lets Carl handle this, his dad is as good as dead and he might never see Sammy again. So, he can't let himself hesitate as he shoves his foot forward and breaks the line, then presses himself back against the wall and hopes he made the right call.

* * *

><p>It's dawn before the screaming stops and doesn't pick back up again shortly after. Dean's on the tattered little sofa, curled up and sunken into the corner, trying to remember why he'd done it, because he keeps thinking that maybe Carl was right. What if they could have found Sammy without John? Or what if Carl could have tortured John to find out where he was?<p>

What if he didn't, though? What if Dean sacrificed his dad – because he knows that's what it would have come to – and they didn't get Sammy back? Or if he'd chosen to go with Carl and John had still managed to get in and overtake them and then Dean was left with a very pissed off demon that he'd openly defied with more then just words? There are so many ways everything could have gone wrong, which is how Dean knows, really deep down, that he did the right thing, but that doesn't make listening to Carl scream any easier.

The quiet settles into him harder then the screaming did, because he knows either Carl's dead or he will be soon. A door opens and closes somewhere on the other side of the kitchen. Dean hasn't gotten up to look around the house. He has to piss, but he's afraid he'll see something, so he stays where he is. John steps out of the kitchen, wiping blood off his hand onto a towel and stops just inside the living space.

He watches Dean for a few minutes or seconds, it's hard to tell right now, because Dean's waiting to hear Carl's dead and it's his fault, but if it was between this one man he doesn't know and Sammy, then it's Sammy and Dean just has to remind himself that's the choice he was making.

John doesn't say that, though. He drops the red stained rag to the ground and leans back against the wall, arms crossing over his chest casually and asks, "Do you know why I'm here?"

Dean isn't sure what he's supposed to say to that, so he sticks with the obvious. "He had something you wanted."

"Yes, but no. Not why I'm here in this cabin. Why am I in John Winchester? Easier ways, you know? Say what you want, but Johnny-boy knew how to make an impression. When it comes to Hunters that knew him, I'd be better off taking another host and using the element of surprise. So, why didn't I?"

Dean isn't sure what to say to that. He's asked himself 'why them' a thousand times in his own head, but never been able to put a voice to it. He can't now either.

"Okay, let's try this another way. Do you know what I do?"

Dean shakes his head numbly.

John smiles slyly and pushes off the wall, making his way across the living room and over to the table with its useless guns. "I'm in acquisitions and securities. My… employer, for lack of a better word, sends me to find things for him and keep them safe until he needs them."

"My dad…?"

"Close." He crouches next to the table and feels the wooden panels of the wall, pushing, knocking, then pressing his hand into them and shifting, testing each one individually. "Try again."

His first thought is him, but no, because if he was supposed to be keeping Dean secure, he wouldn't have risked letting him anywhere near a hunter, which means, "Sammy?"

"Bingo!" The panels under his hand shifts with his movements and he slides it up, reaches in and pulls out what looks like an old, leather bound book. "My employer was concerned that your father was going to figure certain things out and that, if he did, he would try and hide Sammy away from us and we need Sammy. Not right now, but eventually."

"Why?"

"That's need to know, Dean, and you don't." John pulls a chair over and sits, knees spread, elbows on his thigh and the book hanging in a relaxed grip. "What you do need to know, is that you have nothing to do with it. I had full permission to dispose of your rotting corpse the minute I walked in the door."

Dean wants to ask why again, but his throat closes up and he can't get the words out.

"Lucky for you, I don't do diapers and you're entertaining. You're a pent up little ball of rage, but you're smart. Watching you struggle with that is amusing as hell. Let's just say, you grew on me. I actually kind of like having you around, but I want to make one thing perfectly clear. Are you listening, Dean?" He nods. "I don't need you anymore. Sammy might be upset if you were to suddenly disappear, but accidents happen and he'd get over it – or near enough. I'm not supposed to be keeping him happy, just alive and under my thumb for now."

"So before you think about taking Sammy and running away, I want you to remember that I tracked down a book that's only been seen by a handful of people since the eighteen hundreds. I can find two little kids that share this body's DNA and when I find you, Dean – not if, _when_ – I might just decide you don't amuse me anymore."

Dean swallows down a thick rise of bile as John sets the book on the table and gets up. "Now, I'm going to go finish with the soon to be late Mr. Carl Worth and you are going to make yourself useful and wipe down any trace that either of us was here. I suggest you do a thorough job."

* * *

><p>They stopped twenty minutes out from the little cabin, pulling onto a side road that's less defined then the one they'd taken to get to the Hunter. Dean doesn't feel like talking, so he doesn't ask what they're doing. He doesn't even really care anymore. All he wants is to get back to Sammy and try to put the image of the body, its head twisted in an unnatural angle, out of his mind. He doesn't want to think about the wide vacant eyes, or the fingers John had him pick up off the floor to add to the fire. He doesn't want to think about the blown out knee caps or the glint of what might have been intestines visible through a gut wound.<p>

When the car stops, they're in a clearing. John takes a few minutes to look around before opening the passenger door. "Come on."

The air's damp with morning dew, warm the way early summer is. The ground sinks a little beneath in his sneakers and Dean waits for John to tell him what to do. He just wants Sammy. He needs Sammy.

"Take it." Dean looks up from the ground and is startled to see the butt of a gun being held out to him. His first instinct is that John is being incredibly stupid, because if it's loaded – John always keeps his weapons fully loaded at all times – then what's to stop Dean from shooting him? Right, because he won't be shooting the demon, he'll be shooting his dad and it won't even do any good.

He takes the gun with a heavy sigh and watches as John fishes a bottle off the floor of the backseat and sets it on a rock maybe ten feet away before stepping back to stand behind Dean.

"When you can hit that, we go get Sammy." Then he leans against the car and waits.

Dean looks at the gun. He looks at the bottle and then he widens his stance like he's seen John do a few times when he stopped between towns and used various inanimate objects as target practice to relieve the boredom of the open road. He uses both hands on the grip and tilts his head instinctively as he lines the sight up and squeezes the trigger. The bottle explodes on the rock and Dean lets the gun fall, but doesn't relinquish his grip, because it feels good. It feels like power. It feels like he can't stop John with it, it won't hurt the demon, but he dares anything else to fuck with him right now when his head is a mess of blood and regret and that desperate need to have his brother where he can see and protect him.

From behind him, a huffed laugh catches in his ear, "Oh, Dean, I might just have a real use for you yet."

They go through the entire clip. It isn't much, but Dean doesn't miss a single shot.

* * *

><p>The house they pull up to later that evening is a run down bungalow in the worst part a large city. It can't be more then six hundred square feet of run down rectangle set on a small, square of property lined with a chain link fence. There's trash all over the lawn and Dean cringes as they walk down a path littered with cans of beer, cigarette butts, rusted needles and, dear god, there was a used condom shriveled up in the grass near the door.<p>

What kind of person had John left Sammy with? Okay, well, to be fair, it probably isn't a person. Actually, Dean finds himself hoping it is a demon, because at least a demon won't hurt Sammy. They want him for something and that might be bad in the long run, but in the here and now it means he's not in danger of coming to any real harm under their supervision.

The door rattles under John's knock and the woman that opens it is more of a rung out stick then a real person. She's yellowy pale and skinny enough that Dean knows she's possessed by her sheer ability to stand steady without support. Her hair hangs dark and to her waist, her doe eyes are sunken and stained nearly black underneath. She's dressed in torn jeans that barely hang onto protruding hip bones and a tank top that sinks in bellow her exaggerated rib cage. His eyes instantly land on the scarred track of puncture marks lining her arm. Crack addict, then, but she wasn't twitching.

Her smile lights up too big in a too thin face. Her teeth are yellow and at least two of the front ones are decayed to the point of rotting. "Johnny! Come give us a kiss."

John scowls, "Really? You couldn't find anything… cleaner?"

"Short notice."

Now Dean's sure she's possessed. Not just their exchange of words, but her un-slurred speech. Her eyes slip down to him and he fights the urge to hide behind John, because he suddenly understands the old saying, 'better the devil you know, than the one you don't.' He knows how to handle John. He knows, now more then ever, what John wants from him. This woman is something else entirely and the way she drags her eyes up and down his four foot frame makes him uncomfortable in a way he isn't familiar with.

He can't hide behind John, though. John knows her, he must trust her if he left Sammy in her care and, more importantly, Dean doesn't actually trust John to protect him from anything. So, he narrows his eyes instead and returns her gaze and she laughs. "Go on, he's asleep on the couch."

Dean does his best not touch her, but can't avoid a brush of his elbow against her hip as he steps into the house. It's dark and smells like body odor and piss. As his eyes adjust, he sees Sammy curled into a corner of a small couch, taking up as little room as possible. He's in the same pajamas John dragged him out in and his face is red, dried tear tracks down his cheeks.

"Sammy?" He keeps his voice soft and low, but Sammy startles anyway. He jerks awake and back from Dean for a second, until he really sees who he's next to and then launches forward, nearly knocking them off the sofa as he buries his face in Dean's chest. "Hey, it's okay, Sammy, come on, look at me."

It takes him a minute to get Sammy to look up. John and the woman are talking behind him, but he doesn't listen, because they don't matter. Sammy matters and he has to know that his brother isn't hurt. If John hurt Sammy… but Sammy finally looks up and besides obvious signs of crying, he isn't bruised or bloody and he doesn't look anything other then just relieved to see Dean.

"I did… I didn't know when… when you were… coming and… and…"

"Sh, it's okay. I'm here now." Dean wraps his arms around Sammy and pulls him back against him again. "Did she hurt you?"

The head at his chest shakes and he sighs in relief as he helps Sammy stand and walk carefully across the floor, because Sammy is barefoot and Dean doesn't want him to step on anything that might hurt him or, worse, infect him. John gives them a raised eyebrow as Dean works them through the door, past the woman he's steadfastly ignoring, because he doesn't want to see her smile at him again.

"We'll wait in the car."

John nods, but he's too busy following her inside the house to really watch as they make the treacherous walk from the door to the car. They get in the backseat and it's quick work to make sure they're locked in and then he tucks Sammy back against him. Inside the car it's too warm and the air is a little stifling, but it's better then out there. It smells like leather and the seats are worn and comforting and Dean relaxes for the first time in nearly eighteen hours.

He has Sammy, now he just has to work on keeping him.

_-tbc-_


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: As always, comments appreciated.

* * *

><p><span><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

Of all the new things John decides to teach him, Dean likes guns best. Knives can do serious damage, but damage isn't what Dean wants. Damage leaves room for error. Guns get the job done quicker, especially since Dean's good at aiming. He's damn good. By the end of the summer he can hit a moving target in the head from a good twenty feet away and he's getting better.

It's animals mostly and empty bottles when it's not. They take Sammy with them and John calls it hunting with a smirk that Sammy doesn't get, but the joke is for Dean – a play on what his dad would have been teaching him if the demon hadn't weaseled his way into some crack in the armor and made itself at home. It stings more then it should, or maybe less, because when John reaches over and tugs at Dean's hair and tells him he did good, it sounds like praise and Dean doesn't want to like that, not from this thing, but he almost can't help it.

Overall, he's relieved when school starts again. School is boring and monotonous and mostly meaningless, but it's a break from the crazy, especially now that Sammy's in Kindergarten. With them both in school, John doesn't have to worry about nosy daycare workers wanting to brief him on Sammy's progress every day and after the first few weeks, they even let Dean walk Sammy home, so John doesn't need to be there at the end of each day.

It shouldn't come as a surprise the first time John leaves for two days over a weekend. John says he'll be back and walks out Friday night, then doesn't walk back in until dawn Monday morning as Dean's trying to get them out the door. He stops Dean on his way out the door with Sammy, one hand on his shoulder and asks, "Any problems?"

Dean looks at up, confused by what he means. Sammy's never a problem and two days isn't that long. Even when John was there, it isn't like he actively participates in anything, so he isn't sure what kind of problems he expected there to be, but either way, Dean shakes his head. "No."

"Good."

The hand on his shoulder squeezes lightly before letting go and Dean takes the opportunity to all but run out the door. It isn't that he thinks John will hurt him – the incident with the table aside, John's never hit either of them or even threatened violence. Not that Dean doesn't think he would or even that he didn't want to. John's a demon and those hours listening to Carl Worth scream were enough to convince Dean of what he's capable of, but if they started showing up with bruises, people might ask questions. Social Services would make house calls. John could soothe some things over, but too many red flags and things could get out of hand. Dean doesn't like to think about what that would mean.

So, he doesn't think the hand on his shoulder is a warning, or a threat or anything like that, it's that the whole physical contact thing is new. John's never been much on touching either of them unless he has to, but ever since he started teaching Dean the finer arts of killing things bloody, he's been a little freer with it. The hardest part is that Dean can't say he doesn't like it. It's not his dad touching him, but it's his dad's hand and there's too much approval behind it, something he wishes he could get from his real dad, but John is the only thing he has next to Sammy.

He hates it. Hates the demon. Hates his dad, sometimes, too. Hates himself more. He hates that he doesn't know what to do, but that he can't just sit around doing nothing. He hates that he's only nine and no one would take him seriously. He hates that he's afraid to try, because what if they did? What if they tried to take Sammy and him away from John? What would John do to them and what would he do to Dean for it? Carl was a Hunter and John didn't break a sweat taking him down. There has to be a way. He _knows_ there's a way, he just doesn't know what it is and he doesn't know how to start looking for it.

When Sammy's asleep later, John sits him down.

"I have another job." He stiffens. "I don't need your help just yet, but I will be gone a lot. You'll have to keep your head down, keep it quiet – don't give anyone a reason to come poking around. Think you can do that?"

Dean nods slowly as John reaches into a duffel bag he's set on the table. Dean's seen that bag before, usually locked in the car, because he doesn't want Dean getting into it. It's what his dad kept their weapons in, an old army surplus bag that he brought home with him from his days in the military. It's almost sacrilegious that John uses it now, but somehow Dean doubts the demon cares about that.

He takes a gun off the top and hands it over. Dean automatically checks the clip and finds it loaded. "You shouldn't need this, but in case anyone tries to break in, you'll have it."

Right, because, once again, they aren't settled into the best area of town. The next thing he pulls out is a knife, but it isn't like any knife Dean's seen before. It's got symbols carved up the blade and John holds it a second, as if he's reconsidering, before taking the blade end and holding it out for Dean to take.

"This is pure silver. It won't hurt a demon, but other supernatural creatures have something like an allergy to silver. It'll kill some of them."

The symbols aren't any language Dean recognizes, it could be Chinese or Japanese, but he isn't exactly well versed in languages, so he can't even begin to guess what they mean or where they're from. One side is serrated, one is smooth and it hooks strangely at the end.

"I haven't gotten word that there's anything else gunning for us, but before I took over Daddy managed to make a few enemies and I haven't exactly kept his nose clean since then." Dean scowls at that, but if John notices, he doesn't say anything. "If something comes through that door, you do what you have to, to get Sammy out and hide. I'll find you."

Of course he will. It's a promise and a threat. Don't run because I'll find you, but if you have to, don't worry, I'll find you. Dean doesn't want that to be comforting, but he can't say that it isn't. He sets the weapons on the table as John shoulders the bag. "I'll be back by the end of the week."

Life without John around is relaxing. It's waking up in time to get them to school, coming home, helping Sammy with his homework and then vegging out in front of the television with Sammy until they can't keep their eyes open. The thing is, it isn't even that much different from what they do when John's there, except Dean doesn't feel the constant thrum in the back of his head that comes from being watched. He doesn't feel the pressure behind his eyes from putting up a front for his brother that everything is okay, because without John there, it kind of is.

For the next several months, John is out more then he's in. He comes back, crashes for a few days, stocks the fridge and leaves again. They flip towns three times before Christmas. Sammy makes friends every time, but the superficial kind that he doesn't talk about once they get out of school and Dean only knows about them, because he sees Sammy in the halls sometimes. It's purely selfish, but he doesn't ask about the friends because he doesn't want to hear about them. He asks about the teachers and homework and Sammy shows off words that he can read. His favorite one is Dean.

"D. E. N… No! D. E. _A_. N. Dean!"

John scoffs in the kitchen and Dean glares at him, which turns the scoff into a chuckle and screw it and screw him. This has nothing to do with him. They're a week away from Christmas and with the holidays fast approaching, he's stopped leaving. One neighbor has already made some half assed remark about not seeing him around lately, only cementing what John believes about being in the apartment for the four week surrounding Christmas and New Years.

John raises an eyebrow at Dean's glare, "Sammy." Sammy looks over, eyes wide with a kind of shell shock and being addressed directly by John. "Can you spell anything else?"

Sammy looks at Dean for approval and Dean shrugs. "Um… cat? C. A. T. and Dog. D. O. G."

There's a moment of silence, then, "How about gun?"

Sammy frowns and his brows drew together, oblivious to Dean's redoubled glare at John. "Gun? Guh… guh… G. uh. U. Gun. nn. nnn N. G. U. N. Gun."

John smiles, "Not bad."

Sammy beams and Dean grits his teeth, because John can't do that. He can't just step in, say a few words, and get Sammy to smile like that. It isn't fair, especially when he's already walking out and Sammy looks a little hurt at the sudden dismissal, but mostly confused. Dean sighs and redirects, "Hey, how about pig?"

Sometimes he wants to tell Sammy about John so badly it's a physical ache in his chest. He can't stand the look on Sammy's face when John ignores him, because Sammy is starting to get old enough to know that isn't the way it's supposed to be. He's started to notice other father's picking their kids up and hugging them and tickling them and he's starting to wonder what's wrong with them that John doesn't do that.

He doesn't ask about it, just like Dean doesn't ask things, because there are some answers you don't want to hear. Dean tries to come up with a lie, but he doesn't know where to begin, so he tries to tell him the truth, only that's worse. Sammy's only five and if Dean was five when the demon first came home wearing their dad, then that was fucked up, but it doesn't mean he has to pass that on to Sammy. Better to let Sammy live with the half truth that the thing they think is their father is a neglectful piece of shit. Dean just has to mitigate the damage by being the best big brother he can, which isn't hard, because Sammy is the best little brother he could hope for.

"I made something for you!" Sammy throws his bag on the sofa and sits next to it, digging through the mess of crumbled papers and comes up with a plastic beaded bracelet strung on a black cleaner. "It's a birthday present!"

Dean turns it over in his hand and he couldn't be prouder. It's a bracelet of wooden beads, most natural, pale brown, but a few stained in orange and green.

Sammy sits on his knees on the sofa, elbows pressed into the back while he watches Dean, waiting anxiously for a reaction. "I thought maybe you could wear it if you went hunting again? For good luck."

It was a little big when he slipped it on, but he shoves Sammy's bag aside and sits on the sofa, pulling Sammy into a hug. "Love it, Sammy. I'll have to restring it on leather, okay? So, it doesn't break."

Sammy smiles so big its all dimples and teeth and they settle in for a night of forgetting to do their homework and watching late night cartoons.

Long after Sammy's passed out with his head resting on Dean's thigh, he lays back against the arm of the sofa and looks at the bracelet hanging too loosely on his wrist. Eventually, John's going to drag him out again. They haven't talked about it, but Dean isn't quite naïve enough to convince himself that John taught him to shoot a gun just so he can protect Sammy. He had a reason, he still does, and Dean's one hundred percent sure he's not going to like it. It's going to be messy and bloody and it's going to involve leaving Sammy behind again. This, though? If he has to sit there and listen to another person being tortured, at least he has this to remind himself why he's doing it. More importantly, though, it's the first birthday present he's gotten in five years and he's never taking it off.

"I hope you understand, Mr. Winchester. I don't take this lightly."

Dean's so screwed.

"Bringing a weapon to school is a very serious offense."

So, so screwed. John's eyeing the knife laid out on the desk in front of him, his hands and eye twitch like he wants to grab for it, but is just managing to restrain himself.

"The only reason I haven't written this up is that I don't think he intended to use it, but I can't ignore it, either."

He glances sidelong at John, but the demon's eyes are fixed on the blade and Dean swallows thick. He fucked up and John's going to get rid of him now. He's going to decide keeping Dean around isn't worth the entertainment value if it gets him called out to the school for a conference about why Dean brought a freaking knife and not just any knife. Maybe if it was a little Boy Scout switch blade, he'd be okay, but it was the one John had given him to protect Sammy, with the six inch blade and the serrated edge and the curved tip that could slide into someone's gut like it was made of butter. Somehow the fact that it's been laid out with the symbols facing up makes it worse.

John finally manages to drag his eyes from the knife to the teacher and his features smooth out into his usual, charming, apologetic smile and Dean isn't fooled for a second, he's still screwed to hell and back – probably literally.

"I apologize, Ms…?"

"Yates, Mr. Winchester."

"Yes, Ms. Yates, of course. You said you haven't reported this?"

She hesitates, because it doesn't take much imagination to know where this is going. "No."

"Like I said, I apologize. The knife is a sort of family heirloom. My father brought it back with him from the war and Dean's always been a bit curious about it. He must have snuck it out of the house this morning. I hope no one got hurt."

It shouldn't, but it always amazes Dean how seamlessly the demon can lie. He always feels like he can see straight through it and he doesn't understand why no one else can.

"No, of course, not. I can assure you this would be an entirely different conversation if they had."

"Good. If you don't mind, I'd like to try and deal with this on my own. Dean's a good kid, but with his mom dead and me working so much, it's hard on him."

"I don't know. This is serious. Mr. Winchester, if it gets back that I…"

"It won't." He reaches a hand out and takes hers, earnest smile and creased cheeks and Dean can see her melt.

"All right. Just this once, but if I catch him with it again, I'll have to file a report. With the police."

"I wouldn't expect anything less." They talk for a while longer, about Dean's anti-social behavior since his mother's death, about Sammy, about how hard it's been on John raising the boys on his own and how much he appreciates everything the school does for them and how nice it is that there are teachers here who really care. It's the same pandering load of bullshit that John fed every daycare worker over the last few years and just like them, Ms. Yates eats it right out of his hand until she's blushing softly and walking them to the door with a smile.

As soon as she's out of sight, the smile drops like a mask from John's face and Dean's chest tightens in apprehension. "I'm sorry. I didn't…"

"Shut up, Dean. Get in the car."

Silently, he slips into the seat and John closes the passenger door behind him. He doesn't know what to say or do. He wants to run, because he really, really doesn't want to die. He can't leave Sammy alone to this. God, if he dies, Sammy won't even know what he's dealing with, because Dean hasn't told him. John will tell him there was an accident and Sammy will believe it, because he doesn't have a reason not to. John's their father and with the exception of one incident last year that Sammy didn't even see, he's never hurt them.

A hand grabs his face, forces his head around to look at John with eyes wide, unfocused. He's hyperventilating. He can't breathe and John squeezes his jaw so tight it's bruising and he manages to pull one long, slow breath in, then another and John nods approvingly before letting go.

"I wasn't…"

"You either shut your mouth or I shut it for you."

In the absence of words, Dean closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe. In and out, slow and steady, his mind running through every stupid thing John could and probably intends to do to him. He hadn't thought… He's been carrying the stupid knife all year. It hasn't left his bag, because John said that if something tries to get in, get Sammy out and run and he wanted to be ready for that. There's thirty bucks in there, too, stuck in the front pocket of his binder. The gun stays under his pillow.

Now that he's been caught, he realizes that maybe carrying a hunting knife in a worn out bag with a busted zipper was a bad idea, but he hadn't counted on getting into a fight. He keeps his head down, doesn't talk much, and doesn't bother anyone. He's not sure why assholes one and two decided he was an easy target or why they thought it was funny to shove him from behind. He's also not sure what prompted him to punch asshole one in the face or kick asshole two in the stomach when he rushed forward to help his friend, but he is sure that when they fell in a tangle of fists onto the ground and the knife fell out of his bag, he hadn't been picking it up to use it. He wasn't even going to threaten them. He was going to put it in his bag and run. He isn't stupid, he knew how much trouble he'd be in if he was caught with a knife, but then Ms. Yates came around the corner and it was in his hand and the guys were freaking out and everything just went downhill from there.

As far as he knows, John took Sammy home before coming back to have his discussion with the teacher, but he knows they aren't heading home now. They're going in the opposite direction of the little apartment a few blocks from the school. Then they're getting on the freeway and Dean can't stop himself from saying, "What about Sammy?"

"He's being taken care of."

That isn't what he meant, but he nods anyway, because he isn't sure he won't start trying to beg if he opens his mouth again. The words are right there in the back of his mouth, waiting to come out. _Please, don't kill me. I won't do it again. I can do better. I'll stay in the apartment. I won't even go back to school. Anything, please, just don't take me away from Sammy._ He swallows them down, because he can and it won't be long before he won't be able to stop himself.

The problem with begging is, it won't get him anywhere. He knows this, because John doesn't have a soul, or a conscience. He keeps Dean around so that he doesn't have to take care of Sammy and because Dean's entertaining, but Dean ceases to be entertaining when he starts being a nuisance and Sammy's getting old enough to take care of himself. Killing Dean won't affect John anymore then killing Carl did. The only difference is he'll have to put up with a very emotional Sammy after, but Dean doesn't think for a minute that'll stop John.

So, by the time they pull up to an abandoned warehouse in the middle of the night, Dean's mostly managed to tap down on that instinctive urge to beg. His stomach is so twisted in knots, he's going to throw up. He's going to lose it all over the inside of the car and he wonders if that's even going to make a difference. Will it make his death slower and more painful, or…?

John opens the passenger door and yanks Dean out by his arm, hard enough that the flash of pain couples with the tension and Dean does throw up. Thankfully, not on John's shoes, because the demon lets him go a second later, apparently sensing what's about to happen. He drops to knees and barely manages to stay upright through the heaves until he's spitting up bile and then nothing. He gags once more, on nothing, before coughing into the back of his hand and then he just kneels over the rancid smell of vomit, panting and shaking.

Beg, cry or throw up, he isn't sure which is worse, but he's kind of glad his body went with throw up, because he doubts John will think less of him for it and why does he even care about that? John isn't his dad, he isn't even a person, he's a demon and what he does or doesn't think about Dean shouldn't matter.

Except when John kneels down and puts a hand on Dean's back and asks, "You done?" It isn't harsh. It isn't kind, either, but he doesn't sound pissed or disgusted.

After another deep breath, Dean nods and John takes his arm again, just as hard, but he lets Dean follow him this time. The skies lighting up bright with a storm that's moving in, but it's the wrong color, almost like the lightening is tinting orange red instead of white.

John looks at it and there's a smirk on his mouth and a twinkle in his eye as he says, "Storms coming."

Before Dean can ask what that means – because it has to mean something – they're at the door. John doesn't let go of Dean as he pulls a large double barrel riffle out of the back of his jeans with his free hand and a second later the metal doors of the warehouse blow open. Actually, no, they blow off the rails entirely, fall with heavy thuds onto the floor and Dean flinches, despite himself, despite knowing better.

Inside, there are two men, a load of weapons and a book open on a crate between them. They're eyes are fixed on John and Dean, frozen at the sudden entrance. John tips his head at them and raises the rifle. A second later, the head of the right one blows open like the doors and Dean can't help trying to pull away now, really try, not just from reflex. John lets him go and he scrambles back against the wall, pressing himself there while John keeps moving.

"Bill! Long time no see."

The Hunter left is standing, gun raised, but he isn't firing, because Dean's guessing he knows it won't do any good. The man isn't as tall as John, but he's built. His features are sharp and angular, his blond hair clipped short, and he looks all kind of mean glaring at John. When he speaks, his voice is deep and confident, "You aren't Winchester."

John stops a few feet away, smiling, "I am now."

Bill looks over at Dean where he's trying to make himself as small as he can against the wall. He doesn't know what this is about, but he knows he wants to run and he can't. He stands still as Bill's eyes settle on him. "You're Dean, right?"

When Dean stays silent and unmoving, John chimes in. "You can answer him, son."

"He is not your son!" Bill's gun cocks. "Dean, is your brother still alive?"

This time he does nod, because John said it was okay and maybe… maybe this isn't about him, not like he was afraid it was. Maybe John isn't going to kill him.

John throws Dean an approving glance before turning back to Bill, whose attention is shifting continuously between the two of them. "Now that's out of the way, let's get down to business."

"What business?"

"Dean has a bad habit of not thinking things through, but you know, I think that might be my fault. See, I didn't explain things to him properly. Like about how demons and monsters aren't the only things tracking us. Isn't that right, Bill?"

Bill's finger tightens on the trigger and Dean thinks he might actually shoot and wonders if the demon is fast enough to get out of the way of the bullet or if he'll even bother. Then he throws the gun to the side and John's eyes automatically move to track it, just for a moment, which is more then enough time for Bill to pull a flask out of his back pocket and thumb it open, tossing the contents of what Dean knows has to be holy water, because it sizzles on the demon's skin and John's eyes go black as he snarls.

For a second, all Dean can think is that he's really glad he never tried holy water, because John looks pissed. Christo might have been annoying, but it never hurt, this looks like it actually hurts him. Then the gun goes off in John's hand and Bill's on the ground clutching his knee, or what's left of it.

John steps forward, straddling Bill's legs and aims the gun at his gut. "Now that wasn't very nice. I only came here to chat."

"You killed Anthony."

"I've killed a lot of people. Now, about that chat."

"Go to hell."

"Been there, done that, moving on. Tell Dean over there about the other thing tracking us."

Bill looks as confused as Dean feels, but when he looks at Dean, there's also determination. "I didn't know your dad very long, Dean, only met him a few times, but he was a good man."

"Blah, blah, blah, get to the point."

He ignored the demon, still looking at Dean like these are dying words and they probably are. "We've been looking for you. Word got out John had been possessed and we've been looking ever since. We weren't even sure you were alive until about a year ago. Surveillance at Worth's place picked you up."

There are Hunters looking for them? It makes sense, actually, because he'd thought John being able to leave them alone for longer stretches might mean they'd move a little less, but if anything, they'd moved more that year. Like they were running from something, or hiding. That's exactly what they've been doing. Carl had cameras and now they know John's possessed and that at least Dean is alive. John has been moving them around to keep Hunters from finding them, but why would he tell him? All that does is give Dean a better idea of what to do to get Sammy and him out.

He knows he can't run and hide on his own, but a Hunter could help. Maybe. Probably. They'd have a better chance than Dean alone. Of course, John's killed two Hunters without breaking a sweat and Dean doesn't think he's going to leave Bill alive. So, maybe not. Still, if he got desperate enough, this tells him that there's help out there, that someone is looking for him and all he has to do is look back.

Bill sucks in breath as John shoves his wounded leg with a foot. "Fuck, John, I know you're in there. We will not stop looking for your boys. You fight that son of a bitch, but we will not stop looking. We will find them and we will…"

"Shut up, Bill, or kiss your other knee goodbye. How many of you are there? Or, _were_ there?"

"Six."

"Right, so that would be you, Anthony, Carl, Bobby, Jim and Caleb. Did you forget that little psychic back in Lawrence? I hear she keeps an ear to the ground, too."

"Seven."

"With you gone, that means they're down to four. How much luck do you think three Hunters and a psychic are gonna have against me?"

"A lot more then you'll give them credit for."

John's smile falters and he rests the barrel of the rifle on Bill's forehead. "Maybe. Maybe I should go ahead and hunt them down."

"Maybe you should _try_." It's a dare and a stupid one, but Dean's grateful for it, because Bill knows more than Dean what demons can do and if he's willing to put his friends in the line of fire, maybe they do stand a chance.

"Maybe." John leans his weight on the barrel hard enough to drive Bill's head back into the ground, then backs off, "Maybe I'll just visit that wife of yours? Your pretty little girl? Last time John saw them, she was in diapers. How old is she now?"

"You stay away from them!"

A howl cut him off and John frowns, "Looks like our time's almost up. I stay away from them if you and yours stay away from what's mine."

"Those boys aren't yours!"

"They are now!" John's dropped down, his nose inches away from Bill's. Even from this far away, Dean can see the black in his eyes. "I give it five minutes before the Black Dogs get here, which means you have five minutes to leave that message. If a Hunter lays one finger on my boys, I will lay a world of hurt on your family."

John backs up and he's a good ten feet away before he turns his back to Bill and lifts Dean up by his arm again, half walking, half dragging him out. Dean can see eyes in the distance, red and floating in the dark of the trees a ways off. John stops long enough to stare back at them and they blink away, presumably back into the trees. "They'll be back. Black Dogs can smell blood, but they can smell demons too and they aren't stupid enough to go after their makers."

"Makers?"

"Black Dogs aren't anything more then the half breed bastard offspring of Hell Hounds." Dean isn't sure how that happens, but he is sure he doesn't want to know. "They come with the lightening. Bill's been tracking this storm for days now, waiting for an opportunity to put himself in front of it."

He's all but shoved into the car and he can hear the unearthly howl on the other side of the glass as John turns the engine and starts driving off. "They'll kill him, won't they?"

"Oh, yeah." John grins, more to himself and the open road then to Dean. "They'll eat him. If he's lucky, they're half starved enough to make it quick."

Dean fought to feel anything other then numb. "How's he gonna tell them to leave us alone if he's dead?"

"He'll write a note. It may take a few weeks for them to find the body, but they will and if he's smart, there'll be a note with his name and his family's contact number on it."

"If he's not?"

"Then we'll be taking another field trip in the near future."

It's not that Dean thinks he deserved it, because Bill was one of a few people that apparently cared enough about them and about Dean's dad to actually look for them. Sometimes Dean feels like a ghost, like he's just trying to get by without anyone noticing them, because when they do, bad things happen and he wants out. He really, really does, but he can't keep going on hope alone. John isn't so bad, really and Dean has absolutely no delusions about what he's capable of. He doesn't think John cares about them the way his father or even those Hunters do. Sammy is an assignment and Dean is useful and entertaining, but… but Dean can't stop hearing it. Bill saying, 'they aren't your boys' and John saying 'they are now,' eyes black, his face twisted in something that might have been anger, but Dean was too far away to tell for sure and when it's just them, John isn't bad. When Dean does what he's told and doesn't pull stupid stunts like getting caught with a knife at school, things are actually pretty good.

He's not giving up on getting his dad back, he can't do that, he _won't_, but Dean thinks maybe, just for a little while, he needs to keep his head down and go with it. They pull up to the little week to week apartment and John turns off the engine, but doesn't get out of the car.

Dean looks at the single window, light filtering in through the heavy curtains drawn over it and sighs. "If Hunters come, I'll take Sammy and hide. You'll find us."

He glances over, out of the corner of his eye, and John's smiling. "I'll always find you, Dean."

That shouldn't be as reassuring as it is.

_-tbc-_


End file.
